


shook

by Netya



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Greasers, Greaser!Keith, Kinda, M/M, Prep!Shiro, Re-upload, barely mentioned but it's there if you like, brief allusions to fire-related trauma, going with the 'keith's dad died heroically' headcanon, probably the most self-indulgent thing I've written
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-09 17:18:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17411030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Netya/pseuds/Netya
Summary: “Shit, Shirogane,” he says, and when Shiro turns to him with a twist of smug to that shy little smile, Keith knows - he’s screwed.





	shook

**Author's Note:**

> This is a re-upload; I took it down in autumn with the intention of editing further, but I'm really in the fandom anymore and I don't want to put the effort in. I hope it's still enjoyable as is!

He flutters in late with an exclamation, jet-black bangs soaked and hanging in his face. He waves to Mr. Holt; blurts out an explanation that’s waved off as the teacher continues his lecture, gesturing to the the diagram of fungi on the board. His pressed tee-shirt stretches tight across his chest like an apology, and _it’s fine_ , Keith thinks as he slides deeper in his chair, not watching, steel-toed boots squeaking over the tiles. _I’m fine._

“Hi,” Takashi Shirogane whispers, apologetic as he slips into the seat beside Keith’s. He’s the picture of a model student as he pulls out his big pencil case and sets it up on the desk, pink pearl eraser clean of chafing at the ends. 

Next is a black plastic bottle with a lion on the front, carefully extracted and placed neat like it’s a commodity. He sits back up with a smile, straight-backed and sweet and ready to learn.

Keith stares holes into his petri dish as Mr. Holt drones on, wishing the mold could swallow him up.

\--

The next time Keith sees him, he’s messing around with his crew at Sal’s Diner, dripping condensed water from their to-go glasses onto handfuls of stolen straws to make them crinkle. 

It’s stupid - they’re all stupid, especially Lance - but they’re his friends, and he appreciates them all the same.

“Hey,” Lance says, interrupting Keith’s shot. “Ain’t that Shirogane over there?” 

Keith looks up, and there he is, Mr. Honor-Student-Wrestling Champ in the flesh. He’s leaning with one arm behind his back against the green plaster wall, sipping on something in a big white cup and not looking their direction. 

“Yo!” Lance yells, before Keith can stop him, “Shiro!” 

Shiro’s head whips up, and he wanders over still slurping on his shake, pink foam sticky on his lips. “Hi, guys! Hey, Keith,” he says, and it’s different, that petal-pretty mouth curved into a soft little smile. 

“Hi,” Keith says, shortly, and goes back to pulling apart his gloves. 

Shiro sways, bites down on the red straw in his mouth and chews. “You doin’ anything crazy tonight?” 

“Why, you cruisin’ for a bruisin’, chump?” Lance laughs, tossing a squishy handful of wrappers in the air and catching it. 

“Nothin’ you’d be interested in,” Keith responds, ignoring Lance. He expects Shiro to be hurt, to look at him with that faint furrowed brow and the little tremor under his eyes like the time he’d forgotten his portion of their bio presentation. But -

The kid’s looking at him like he’s curious, something calculated in his sharp grey eyes, trying to figure him out. “Try me,” he says, milkshake straw chewed up like gum, cracked all over and soft with spit. 

Lance snorts, glancing at Keith like he expects him to refuse. Keith pulls out another loose thread from the base and kicks back off the hood of his car. “Come on,” he says, and something about the sound of Lance’s spluttering and Shiro’s boots scuffing over the gravel makes him immensely satisfied. 

“Alright, then,” Lance calls from the seat of Hunk’s yellow ‘56 ford crown, “down the straight?” 

“Yeah,” Keith shouts back, over the roar of the engine as he revs it up. He cocks his head at Shiro, glaring up at him from the driver’s seat. “You chicken, or what?” 

Shiro’s eyes glint, and he gestures for Keith to move over, setting his milkshake carefully in the cupholder before he gets behind the wheel. He slams the door, pop’s the clutch and then they’re streaking down the road with a patch laid down behind them, and Keith’s got whiplash from how fast they’ve gone, neck whipping back hard against the seat. 

He can hear Lance’s outraged yells as Shiro hauls ass across the intersection, and Keith chokes in alarm, staring incredulously at the manic light in Shiro’s eyes as they squeal off all the way to the desert, the outskirts near the place Keith was born.

He’s crazy. Shiro’s crazy. 

“Shit, Shirogane,” he says, and when Shiro turns to him with a twist of smug to that shy little smile, Keith knows - he’s screwed.

\--

Keith shows up under Shiro’s window the next night, tosses pebbles until the kid pokes his head out with obvious bewilderment. 

It’s cute.

“Hey, Shirogane,” Keith twirls his keys around his finger, “Let’s go for a drive.” 

The autumn wind whips past them as Keith takes them out, far out, the red fringe on Shiro’s scarf whipping behind them like a banner in the cool air. Shiro asks if they can stop by Sal’s on the way, so Keith obliges, picking up one strawberry milkshake and a package of due backs. 

He’s may be a reckless driver but he’s no fool; he cuts corners and breaks hard but they navigate safely up the winding roads, parking on a secluded ledge two cliffs down from makeout point where it has a wider view. 

They chat for awhile about nothing things, Shiro chastising Keith for yanking him out of bed on a school night - but Keith’s unrepentant, clicking his lighter and kicking his heels up on the dash.

“So, Takashi Shirogane,” Keith sighs suddenly, tilting his head. “How come no one uses your first name? Not even you.” 

“Huh? Oh,” Shiro eyes the smoke that wafts up from Keith’s lips in curls. “It’s a cultural thing. In Japan you don’t say it, mom says it’s uncouth.” 

“What’s that mean? _Uncouth_?” Keith sucks on his cigarette. Shiro scowls at him, and Keith smirks, rolling down the window.

“It’s…impolite. Rude, like,” Shiro shrugs, glancing back out the windshield. The stars are bright and blinding over their nook, but privately Keith thinks Shiro’s just as dazzling. 

“Oh.” He considers this, taking another drag before flicking the stick out the window. “It’s rude, huh? Like somethin’ a tough guy would say?”

Shiro opens his mouth to respond, then sees Keith’s wide grin, the downright improper look on his face, and he shakes his head. “Cut the gas, greaser.”

“Careful who ya shoot your mouth off to, Takashi,” Keith counters, smile sharp like a wolf’s under a fat full moon. Shiro hunkers down in his seat and huffs, stares determined out the window: but Keith sees through the collar of his sweater and knows Shiro must be blushing all over.

“Gonna cream you,” Shiro threatens, reaching over the console to tug on the collar of Keith’s jacket. 

Keith can’t help the words that fly out of his mouth. 

“Make you cream, more like,” he grins, and Shiro smacks Keith’s shoulder like he’s bugged but there’s laughter bubbling up in his throat. 

“Would make you cream real hard, huh,” Keith muses, and Shiro makes to hit him again but Keith grabs his hand before he can, presses a kiss to the knuckle. “You’re unreal,” he murmurs, glancing up, and now Shiro’s not laughing so much as breathing, eyes bright with amusement but there’s heat there, too, like an engine sparking on nimble fingers. “Keith,” he whispers, and when Keith kisses him, he tastes like strawberries and cigarette smoke, smeared with Keith’s scent but he’s the one that’s got Keith all shook up.

\--

It’s a week later when they’re in Keith’s garage, Keith tinkering under the hood of his chevy bel air and Shiro ticking marks off his chem test make-up in the corner when Shiro asks, “You going to the dance?” 

“I’m not sure,” Keith says, glancing down at his grease-stained gloves and flexing them. 

Dances mean gaggles of tittering girls in the halls, hearts and mouths all a-flutter at the posters and prospects and too much spiked soda-pop before last period. Homecoming means flu season, too, and the sweaty collection of germs parading through the school gym, dancing across bare shoulders and stained tuxedo-jackets; Keith’s never really seen the appeal.

“Wh -”

Suddenly Shiro’s up in his space, chemistry notebook forgotten on the ground. He’s tall and broad and concentrating, the very tip of his hot little tongue poking out of his hot little mouth, and his fingers are locking in the slots between Keith’s knuckles and tugging them down over his waist. 

Shiro hums thoughtfully while Keith blinks, processing. Shiro’s waist is wide and Keith’s palms are snug around his hips - they fit, warmly. Perfectly. 

“I -” Keith stutters. He _stutters_ , trying to wrap his hands around the idea, figuratively and literally. “I don’t dance.” 

Shiro has that knowing look in his eyes, voice almost smug when he hums and sways his hips, “Well, I can teach you.” There’s definitely the ghost of a smirk when he teases, “whaddaya say, Kogane, want private sessions in something besides chemistry?” 

Keith narrows his eyes, fingers squeezing tight in the divot of Shiro’s hips as he warns, “Careful, Takashi,” and slides one hand down to make him yelp, leaning in to swallow his protesting laughter down, down, down. 

\--

They fool around for a bit, homework and mechanics alike forgotten, and when they finish Keith’s settled back and staring, watching Shiro make his way around the garage collecting clothes. He bends over to pick up his glasses, glancing back like he can sense Keith watching. “What are you thinking, baby?” 

“That I’m crazy about you,” Keith runs his mouth like always, not thinking, “and I love the way your hips sway when you walk.” 

Shiro blushes bright cadillac red, all the way down to his toes.

\--

Keith spends the days leading up to the dance constantly dodging Shiro’s questions; he doesn’t know how to say, “it’s not you, it’s me, I don’t like being in hot loud places”. 

He knows he messed up, though, when Shiro asks him about what colors might be good for a tux and he says, straight up, “Takashi, I don’t _care_ ” when he really doesn’t mean it at all. 

And Shiro doesn’t go all defensive-hurt-puppy; he doesn’t wilt, doesn’t start to cry, doesn’t do anything like a girl might do. Instead he goes quiet, looks taken aback, then stands and leaves without another word, fists shaking at his sides. 

“Fuck,” Keith mutters to himself, burying his head in his knees, stabbing his cigarette through the whole in his jeans. “Fuck.”

\--

Shiro doesn’t talk to him for two whole days, not even sparing him a glance in class, where they’re seated together and have to collaborate. “Shiro,” Keith pleads, frustrated, whisper blending with the hissing of chemicals that fill the room. “Talk to me.” 

Shiro spills copper carbonate on his wrist and leaves to wash it off. 

\--

The night of the dance, Keith pulls on his nicest looking jacket over some slacks and drives to the school, making a concentrated effort not to skid on the roads. He parks near the gym, grasps the single rose he’d snitched from his dad’s garden, and nearly jumps out of his skin when Lance’s high-pitched “SAMURAI!” echoes in his ear. “Lance, _what in the_ -” he stops when he sees who’s standing beside him, leaning against the concrete wall.

Shiro looks like a vision, deep red band wrapped tight around his waist, one of Keith’s jackets stretched to the limit over his broad shoulders. 

There’s a “sorry” on his tongue, but Shiro’s looking at him with such a mix of nerves and relief that Keith knows he doesn’t need it, and he twists the rose in his hands as he walks up, mindful of the thorns pricking at his skin. “Thought you were gonna dance,” he says, instead, holding out the rose like the offering it is.

Shiro shakes his head faintly, beckoning for Keith’s hand, instead. “I wanna to go to the drive in with strawberry milkshakes,” he teases, “Wanna curl up in the backseat, shotgun with your stolen cigarettes.”

Lance lets out a bark of laughter. Keith pays him no mind.

“Neck a bit, put grease in our hair,” he says, stepping a little closer, enjoying the flush it brings to Shiro’s cheeks.

“Got me all shook up,” Keith whispers, and when Shiro kisses him it tastes like milkshakes and cigarettes, strawberry-vanilla ash burning on his tongue.  



End file.
